


In Flagrante Delicto (In Blazing Offense)

by DerRumtreiber



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Denial, First Time, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, power of suggestion is powerful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/DerRumtreiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>spnkink-meme req fill: Dean/Sam, Hunting community made them do it</p>
<p>"And surely - surely – Ellen of all people isn’t in on this giant joke against the Winchesters, too. The one where they are apparently living in an alternate universe where it is A-OK, hunky-dory to sex up your siblings. But she must be, it seems, because that is in fact one very large bed up against the wall, not two. The other room has two. He knows, because they’ve stayed there before, in separate beds, like normal brothers-who-happen-to-spend-every-hour-together-but-do-NOT-have-sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Flagrante Delicto (In Blazing Offense)

“ _I_ know you ain’t,” Bobby says, scrambling some eggs with a plastic spatula and reaching for the pepper.

 

Sam’s not so sure Bobby believes what he’s saying. They’ve known the man long enough to tell when he’s trying to protect them from some truth or another, though he may well be trying to protect his own ass at the moment. Dean is sitting on the counter next to the stove and he’s looking none too happy.

 

Sam can’t really blame him.

 

“Hand me that rosemary, Dean – no, that’s nightshade, you knuckle head, you’re gonna kill us. It’s the one that  _says_  rosemary. And I’m just sayin’ you boys have a bit of a reputation. You already knew that.”

 

“We already knew we had a reputation for being the most badass hoodoo hunting monster killers this side of Hell, Bobby!” Dean says. It comes out high pitched, a little squeaky, and Sam would laugh were the situation not so damn disturbing. “Not that we  _go home after and screw each other’s brains out._ ”

 

Dean looks to Sam for help, but Sam is finding the cracks in Bobby’s kitchen table infinitely more fascinating than ever before. Mostly, he just does not want to have this conversation. If he ignores it, he thinks, maybe it’ll go away.

 

Because, you know, that’s ever worked before.

 

“It’s just part of the life is all, Dean. It’s not they’re all thinkin’ you’re more a freak of nature than any of them. Just that a man finds comfort where he finds comfort,” Bobby looks like he wants to choke on those last words; Dean looks like he wants to choke Bobby.

 

“You know what, let’s not even – let’s just end this conversation right here. In fact,” Dean says, like he’s come to the most brilliant conclusion ever. “Let’s pretend it never happened."

 

He adds, “I’m dumping your hard liquor, Old Man. You’re having god damned hallucinations is what it is. Ain’t that right, Sammy?”

 

“Mm,” Sam says.

 

“Look what you’ve done, Bobby. Even Sam is speechless.  _You broke Sam_.”

 

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says.

 

“Idjits,” Bobby mutters, shoving eggs from the pan onto some plates, but he drops the subject.

 

Dean, unfortunately, does not. Or, at least, he does for a few days, until they end up down at the Roadhouse, and apparently he can’t get it out of his head that everyone around them may be thinking he and Sam are having hot, incestuous man-sex every night. He makes sure Sam can’t get it out of his head, either.

 

“Lookit that guy looking at us, Sam,” Dean tries to whisper, several drinks in. “You know what he’s thinking?”

 

“That a creepy drunk man is staring at him in a bar where literally everyone is packing,” Sam takes a swig of his beer.

 

“No, Sam. He’s thinking ‘lookit those brothers over there. I bet they’re gonna go home and shag.’ Fuckin’ weirdo.”

 

“You’re the weird one, Dean. That thought is weird. And disturbing. And he probably doesn’t even know who we are.”

 

“Everyone knows who we are,” Dean points out.

 

He’s right, but honestly, no one is paying them any more mind than normal. No one has treated them any different, said anything strange, done anything that would indicate they care that the infamous Winchester Brothers get their rocks off in each other’s beds. Which they don’t. Because, ew.

 

Sam thinks he’ll try the ignoring tactic again, even though he knows before he starts it’ll never work. One does not simply ignore Dean Winchester, especially not when he’s off on a slightly drunken, completely ludicrous tangent.

 

“And Jo!” Dean says, like Sam is supposed to know exactly what he’s talking about.

 

He doesn’t, but Jo hears her name as she passes with a tray and looks over, bewildered. Sam just gives her a wave and a half shrug, points at Dean as if to say ‘don’t mind my brother, he’s just being Dean. You know him.’ Which, luckily, she does, and she moves on.

 

“See!” Dean hisses.

 

“No, I really don’t,” Sam is kind of hoping that if he says as few words as possible Dean will be more likely to get distracted by passing cleavage, or another drink.

 

“She just walked by. She didn’t say anything, or stop, or flirt. She hasn’t flirted with me all night. Not once!”

 

“The world does not revolve around you and your dick, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s mostly sure the offended pout slightly-more-than-tipsy Dean sends his way is fake.

 

“I’m not that self-centered, bitch,” Dean says. “But Jo always flirts with me. Like, always.”

 

“Apparently not. Please don’t take this where I think you’re taking this,” Sam finishes off his beer. “Ellen said she has a room for us tonight. I’m gonna go grab the key. You just- you just try to stop thinking about what you’re thinking. Please.”

 

 “Your sentences suck, Sammy,” Dean says, by way of insult.

 

“You suck, Dean.”

 

“I thought you said not to go there.”

 

“Oh. My God. I hate you. If you say another word you’re sleeping in the car,” Sam says before he stalks off.

 

“Ouch, someone just got couched,” Sam hears a guy two seats down joke, followed by a crash and a pained yelp as Dean casually leans over and kicks the barstool out from under him.

 

All Sam can do is sigh and flag down Ellen. The faster he gets Dean out of here the less likely they are to incur the woman’s wrath later. She seems to agree because she hands over a key to one of her guest rooms and gets Jo to help Sam drag his brother out the door.

 

Sam was really thinking Dean was imagining the whole Jo thing, but when they get to the room he’s got to admit Dean may be on to something. Jo’s hands are off Dean as soon as they get the door unlocked, almost like he’s on fire.

 

She smiles at Sam, pats him on the shoulder – a little awkwardly since he towers over her. “You guys, uh,” she says, and it’s weird to hear Jo of all people at a loss for words. “You guys have a good night, alright?”

 

And then she’s gone before Sam can ask her what the hell is wrong and why has the world gone all topsy-turvy these days.

 

“See,” Dean insists. “Weird.”

 

 “Shut up, Dean.”

 

And surely - surely – Ellen of all people isn’t in on this giant joke against the Winchesters, too. The one where they are apparently living in an alternate universe where it is A-OK, hunky-dory to sex up your siblings. But she must be, it seems, because that is in fact one very large bed up against the wall, not two. The other room has two. He knows, because they’ve stayed there before, in separate beds, like normal brothers-who-happen-to-spend-every-hour-together-but-do-NOT-have-sex.

 

“Seeee,” Dean whines again, and this time Sam doesn’t even have the energy to argue.

 

“Just lay down. I’m taking first shower.”

 

“Whatever,” Dean says, voice muffled as he falls face first into the mattress. “Too tired.”

 

There are times Sam hates his life. Most of the time, actually, if he thinks about it, but he doesn’t say that out loud because the last thing Dean needs is more fodder for his ‘Sam is a whiny little emo baby’ folder.

 

“No you aren’t. You’re showering if I have to scrub you down myself. I have to share a bed with you, asshole.”

 

“Because that’s going to be really great for our reputation. I bet there are cameras hidden in the walls. It’s a conspiracy.”

 

“I honestly did not think you could get any crazier,” Sam says. “Get up and strip down.”

 

He ends up doing most of it for Dean, who is just being difficult at this point, because Sam knows his brother and knows he’s not that drunk. He doesn’t think Dean can even get that drunk anymore – he’s been working on his Bobby level tolerance for years now.

 

But Dean’s done it for him a hundred times when he was little, and it’s not weird, he tells himself, he’s just returning a favor. Because Dean takes care of him, and he takes care of Dean, and it’s because they are completely platonic, maybe a little morbidly co-dependent brothers, and it’s what brothers do. Unlike other things, which brothers do not.

 

It’s all Dean’s fault that Sam’s thinking about it, really. He’ll have to remember to lay the smack down on him when Dean’s sober enough to properly feel pain.  As it stands he man handles Dean up and to his feet, pulls his non-cooperative brother into the tiny adjacent bathroom, shoves him under the shower spray and steps in behind him.

 

"Dude," Dean protests. "Stop trying to cop a feel of my junk."

 

"I'm not interested in your junk, Dean," Sam grits out.

 

He considers throwing the tiny bar of soap at Dean's head, but the ensuing possible scenarios play out in his mind like a bad prison porno.

 

Dean actually manages to look offended, sopping wet and tilted awkwardly to one side like balance is a difficult concept. "Why?" he asks. "What's wrong with it?"

 

"It's  _yours_ , Dean. The only -junk- I want to be touching is my own."

 

He'd like to say he can't believe Dean is even talking about this, but it is Dean, and his brother is nothing if not vain. Sam's not going to take it personally that apparently Dean doesn't think this whole thing is as weird as Sam does.

 

Dean's been through a lot. He's probably not all right in the head any more, but it's not Dean's fault. Sam will just soldier through this awkward period and they never have to speak of it again once Dean's forgotten about it.

 

"But mine is nicer," Dean insists, because apparently it's common sense that since Dean has a nicer dick Sam should want to touch it. "I mean sure, you've got me in the size department, but look at you. You're like, ten stories tall. It would be unfortunate if you weren't proportionate."

 

"Dean," Sam says, trying to remain neutral.

 

"But motion of the ocean and all that. I'd do me. I mean look at me."

 

"I'd really rather not."

 

"Such a prude, Sammy."

 

"Just, wash, Dean," Sam shoves the teeny soap bar in front of him like a riot shield. "And stop hogging the hot water."

 

Dean slaps Sam's ass as they squeeze by each other, switching spots. Then he trips over Sam's feet, and, God help them, drops the soap. Sam takes a deep breath, turns around, and tries to drown himself in the spray. His life. This is his life. That is his brother. He hates his life.

 

"Heh," Dean says. "This would be the perfect set up for-"

 

"Shut. UP. Dean."

 

The bed is a king size. Theoretically it should be more than big enough for them both. They've shared tents smaller than the mattress. Once, when they were on the run, they shared the back seat of the Impala, and wasn't that awkward because Sam really is 'like, ten stories tall' and Dean isn't small either.

 

But now there are  _implications_  hanging heavy in the air and it feels like there isn't enough space in the universe to put between them and remove this farce of intimacy that's been shoved on the shoulders of their previously almost completely innocent relationship.  

 

There was that one threesome, once, nothing had touched and they have never spoken of it again. Mostly because even Dean can tell when Sam's death threats hold real promise. It doesn't count because there was a girl in between them, and there's ten years between now and then.

 

Now, all that's between them is two feet of air and electric tension that Dean is not helping alleviate by propping himself up on one arm and staring at Sam. He looks contemplative, which is never a good look on Dean, not least of all because it tends to not get much practice. Dean has the habit of diving in and letting Sam think through the details after.

 

"There's nothing wrong with my junk," Dean says again, and Sam reaches over, pulls the pillow out from under Dean's elbow and smashes it over his own face.

 

If it doesn't stop the air flow at least it'll muffle Dean's voice.

 

"Dude, stop that," Dean says, and for a moment Sam can hear the big brother peeking through the madness as Dean yanks the pillow back and away from Sam's head.

 

"Don't even joke," Dean says, and isn't that just rich?

 

"Don't joke? Do you not realize what you're going on about?" Sam knows he sounds a little frantic, and he really shouldn't be letting this get to him, but maybe he's been thinking about it more over the past few days than he's been willing to let on.

 

"Do you not realize how kidding I am?" Dean asks, and when Sam finally looks over Dean is staring at him like he's considering checking Sam into the psych ward, not the other way around.

 

There's a hint of a condescension in the furrowed brow, the peek of a smile threatening to lift one corner of Dean's mouth. "C'mon, Sammy. I'm not about to actually molest you. Not," he adds. "That I could blame you if  _you_  were tempted. Because seriously."

 

"Dean!"

 

"Jesus, calm down Miss Prissy Panties," Dean grumbles. "It's like being married without any of the damn benefits."

 

"Didn't you give a guy a concussion earlier for implying just that?" Sam asks, incredulous.

 

"The floor gave him a concussion, Sammy. I just helped him out of his seat."

 

Sam scrubs at his face with his palms, smells the cheap soap, the laundry detergent, Dean. It's all so familiar, almost comforting, and Sam's having trouble staying angry. After all, it's just Dean. This is what Dean does. He throws people for a loop when they're least expecting it. It's how Dean stays alive - let them underestimate and misunderstand while he's got it all figured out, the whole damn time.

 

Sometimes Sam thinks he knows his brother better than himself. Sometimes it takes him a little longer to catch on.

 

"Do you want the benefits?" Sam asks.

 

"Do you?"

 

"I asked you first, asshole."

 

"Bitch."

 

"Jerk."

 

Dean huffs softly, laughs, a low rumble that Sam feels in the creak and shake of the old mattress below him, the rise of the sheet above. Then Dean is rolling, and Sam is pinned, loosely caged below his older brother who is looking down through half-lidded, sleepy eyes, freckles and crows feet and worry lines that belie all Dean has been through, gone through, lived to die another day through.

 

Dean's not drunk, and Sam questions how tipsy he'd ever been to begin with.

 

"I'm just saying. If we've already been found guilty of the crime."

 

And this would be weirder, he guesses, if they hadn't been dancing around it since, well, forever. If they hadn't grown up in each other’s back pockets. If Dean hadn't pulled him out of the fire more times than Sam can count, sold his soul for Sam. If Sam hadn't left because of the implications brimming at the surface, at the threat not of being tied to his family for life, but of being tied to Dean before he'd been tied to anyone else.

 

"It's not really fair," Sam says without heat.

 

"It's damn unpatriotic is what it is," Dean agrees. "But life's not fair, Sammy."

 

Dean, Sam realizes, is waiting for permission. Sam doesn't think Dean's ever waited for permission before in his life.

 

"Could be nice, though," Dean adds, a little too casually.

 

Sam figures if he hasn't freaked out and tossed Dean off by now, he's not really harboring any intention to do so any time soon. He lets his body relax, rolls his eyes up to stare at the wall above his head. It feels like if their eyes meet right now that'll be it.

 

"Sam," Dean says. "Sammy."

 

"Could be," Sam agrees.

 

Then Dean's mouth presses against Sam's own. Dean's body presses down, too, weight shifting from the support of his arms to cover as much of Sam as he can, and Sam takes it all, pulls Dean in tight, tangles their legs together, tilts his head so they fit together just exactly right.

 

Everyone else may have seen it coming from a mile away. But when it's all said and done, when the morning light finds them sticky, sated, and sprawled across their respective sides of the bed, ankles touching, wrists grazing, wet spot between them, Sam finds solace in the fact that the world still doesn't know them like they know each other.

 

Let the world think what it wants - if they do this, it'll be on their own terms. And at least, Sam thinks, the Winchester brothers have never been accused of a crime they didn't commit.


End file.
